Chapter 1 UPDATED
“Raise your hand to tell me why you think narrative beginnings are sometimes called ‘hooks’?” The room erupts in a flurry of hands raising after you prompt your class of fourth graders. They so badly want to please you and impress their fellow classmates, as though this one question answered correctly is all the recognition they will need in life. If only it were that simple… You’re obviously pleased with the participation, but it’s the select few that decidedly don’t raise their hands that have garnered your attention.
“Scott,” you gently call the shaggy haired boy, occupied with a glue stick in his desk rather than the discussion around him. Groans were heard throughout the room. Some due to not being called upon, a fair reaction for ten year olds not being chosen. Others voiced their quiet frustration because it was truly up to fate as to whether Scott wanted to participate in class or shutdown entirely.
“I didn’t raise my hand,” he replied, as if there must have been some mistake. Glue stick still in hand as if he was merely waiting for you to walk away before turning his attention back to it.
A soft smile, as you move around the classroom in an effort to gain the attention of other students by your mere proximity. “Sneak attack,” giving a small shrug to accompany a simple answer. A ‘sneak attack’ was more commonly known as a ‘cold call’—a method of keeping students engaged. It required more effort than the name implied. You had to know your students. Know how they would react. Know if it was motivational or detrimental.
“Why do you think narrative beginnings are called ‘hooks’?” you repeat the question, tone gentle as you continue to look at the boy who was beginning to fluster. You quickly gesture towards the whole class, directing your next words to them. “If you aren’t currently sending good vibes to your classmate, then I don’t know what you’re doing!”
As if on cue, students began to wiggle their fingers in the direction of the young boy. A few called out words of encouragement. “There’s no right or wrong answer here, Scott. I just want to know why you think a beginning is called a ‘hook’. What connection can you make?” Your tone is even softer than before, barely heard above the other students’ excitement. You’ve chosen Scott for a reason. He loves to fish. His only good memories of his dad revolve around fishing. He’d talk about fishing day and night if he could. And more importantly, he hates to write and if you don’t get him invested in this now—you’re a goner.
“Um,” Scott’s small smile is contagious. He only smiles like that when he knows the answer. Of course he does. His body language is telling you that this is going in the right direction. “You use hooks to pull the reader in—like you pull in a fish?” he asks, punctuating his question with a laugh.
Your face contorts in comical confusion. “Are you asking me or telling me, Scott?”
“With confidence!” a couple of classmates call out, again—they know you. They know your phrases and mannerisms. They feel safe. And if you don’t teach them a damn thing the whole year, you’ll be sure that they at least feel safe when they are with you.
Scott’s laughter mingles with his friends, jumping from his seat, his actions matching the energy of the room. “Hooks pull readers in!” he yells out. You respond with laughter of your own, because you know he isn’t done. “And—and—you have to have the right bait. You gotta know what type of fish you want to catch…” he rattles off quickly.
To keep the energy alive (and keep the conversation about writing), you’re quick to help him out. “Just like you have to know who your audience is when you’re writing.”
“Because you don’t want to lose them with the wrong beginning!”
“Exactly! Nicely done!” Your words are lost in a sea of excited claps, laughter, and words of congratulations towards Scott. “Today, we are going to begin to write a fictional narrative about what would happen if you and your favorite fictional character met. It’s going to take us a month or so to complete it. Right around the end of the school year. Thanks to Scott, we already know that we have to grab our readers’ attention from the very start. He’s not going to have any trouble doing that, right everyone?” The students were already chatting away about what they were going to write about, even Scott who absolutely hated to write.
There were more efficient ways to introduce a writing assignment. There were quieter ways. Ways that likely followed a perfectly laid out plan. You spent ten extra minutes that could have been used to go over the specifics of the assignment. But, had you done that….Scott would likely not have worked so hard on his narrative about meeting Loki. And you, dear reader, would not have randomly sent his writing to the man behind the God of Mischief…
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There wasn’t anything mischievous about nursing a hangover with a five o’clock wake-up call from his furry companion. It seemed Bobby hadn’t received the memo that if his owner was up past midnight, drinking gin, and arguing with his publicist for the hundredth time about ‘social media image’---it wasn’t appropriate to lick at said owner’s face after he roughly had four hours of sleep. It was rude.
A muffled groan came from beneath the pillow Tom had somehow managed to burrow under in his intoxicated state. It was a feeble attempt to avoid this whole situation. Yet, Bobby was insistent about getting up at their normal time. “I will buy you every bone this world has to offer, Bobby. Please. Five more minutes,” he begged the dog, but with little success. Hearing Tom’s voice may have made it worse, as Bobby’s cold nose dug deeper and deeper beneath the covers to lick at his owner’s ear.
“Alright! I’m up! I’m up!” hair flopped in all sorts of directions as he emerged from his cocoon. “We’ll take a walk and then go back to bed,” but even as he was saying it, he knew it to be a lie. He never could be one of those people who could just fall back asleep after padding around. When he was awake, he was awake—despite wishing with all of his might to catch a few more winks.
Hangover aside, the morning operated much the same. A quick trip outside for Bobby, before all of London was up for the day. Coffee. Two cups. Aspirin (not part of the typical routine, but decidedly required to survive today). Large glass of water. Then, to properly take Bobby on a walk more so to clear his own head than for his companion. Ballcap, glasses, and his comfortable attire were not noteworthy in his opinion—yet, he was fully prepared to force a smile if the paparazzi were out and about.
If they had been out, Tom wouldn't have noticed. The beautiful thing about walks is that you can lose yourself so wholly in the moment. A jog would have done the trick as well with the blood pumping, heart racing, the general feeling of being wildly alive and near the brink of death with each stride—though the thought alone of a jog this morning made him groan. Naturally, his thoughts found their way back to the argument from the night before. His social media presence. Was it as active as his publicist would have liked? No. This wasn’t a new topic of conversation, but for whatever reason, Luke chose last night to put his foot down. Especially in the lull between projects, Tom had to keep in the public eye. No, not in the sense of the world knowing his every move—Where was he having dinner? Who was he eating with? Who was he sleeping with? The works. Taking to Twitter or Instagram with a picture of Bobby or the current album he was listening to would not be a complete invasion of privacy.
Luke was never going to understand though. While the publicist may have been in the public eye, he had never known what it was like to have every word scrutinized, to have his hand placement on a friend’s shoulder be the subject of countless blog posts, to read about his own break-ups in painstakingly dramatized articles… The world had never held him under a magnifying glass in an effort to see everything that was wrong with him.
And Tom told him as much. Hence, the hangover. For he never would have been so blatantly frustrated by the suggestion or as honest in his views had he not been two drinks in (the lightweight) when Luke had come by for a visit. At a certain point, Luke knew better than to argue with Tom after drink number two. Tom so rarely drank, that when he did, he would end up regretting everything that was said by the following day. It had simply been a combination of jet lag and a welcome home bottle of gin.
By the end of the walk, Tom was indeed regretting the argument from the night before. It wasn’t that he had a change of heart, but he didn’t like being cross with anyone. Did that stop him from getting angry? Of course not—but it was quite difficult to hold that level of bitterness in his heart.
Upon returning home, he set about preparing breakfast for himself and a new bowl of food for Bobby–proving that he wasn’t going to crawl back to bed like he hoped from the start. After taking a quick shower and sliding into something equally as comfortable as his earlier outfit, he forced down a piece of toast and another glass of water.
It wasn’t until he settled at his computer to answer a few emails he realized Instagram was opened in one of his tabs. A disgruntled roll of the eye was all he could muster in terms of frustration, having used up most of it the night before. Of course, staring back at him was a picture of Bobby’s smiling face.
10,567 likes
twhiddleston A picture is worth a thousand words.
6 hours ago
Lovely. Just lovely. Tom’s immediate reaction was to start clicking around to look into how to change his password. It wasn’t as though Luke hadn’t posted pictures before on Tom’s behalf, but this certainly wasn’t going to be a constant–especially pictures of his, albeit adorable, pup. Throughout his search, he seemed to stumble upon the messages. What a rabbit hole that turned out to be… Most of the newest messages were about Bobby and how cute he was—which he had to agree with like a proud parent.
Amidst the sea of compliments were a few rather scandalous messages in regards to—well, him. All aspects of his anatomy were subject to talk. Flattering as it may seem at first, having never dreamed of a part of his body to be referred to as an anaconda, these people were absolute strangers. They didn’t know him. They only knew what he allowed others to see from his work. Would they be so keen to fawn over him when they truly knew him? When they knew the real Tom?
He was just about to click out of the messages, not desiring anymore deprecating reflection, when a new alert appeared.
cgfan0821
Greetings! Not sure if Tom will actually see this—seems unlikely given how busy he likely is…
cgfan0821
Damn. Unlikely and likely so close in the same sentence. I could have figured out a better word. Or you know, not have sent that first message.
Tom had to give a chuckle as he watched the real time struggle this person was seemingly having with his or herself. He had half the mind to respond back, but the little messaging system said they were still typing—so, he politely stayed quiet.
cgfan0821
I really hope he doesn’t actually read these. Can you paint me in some sort of decent light–if/when you relay this to him? Or don’t relay. At least not this part.
He felt bad for laughing at this stranger’s tumble down the metaphorical rabbit hole. There was an endearing sense to it all though and a confidence that managed to peek its way through. Why allow others to see you stumble, if you were not confident that you would rise again? Alright, Tom. A little too deep for a simple message.
cgfan0821
Can you please show him this?
Before he had a chance to reread over the messages, several images popped up. At first, he was concerned about what the pictures contained–given how he knew people could behave on the internet, especially when there were no repercussions for such behavior. Upon further inspection though—it looked like a child's handwriting. These were pictures of a book of some sort. There were illustrations of Loki (the horns gave it away, but the grin sold it) alongside a smaller person. Based on the label that said in all caps SCOTT, Tom took it to be the main character. It was absolutely adorable. Page after page–some easier to read than others. After thirteen pictures of writing and illustrations depicting an adventure between Loki and Scott–and from what Tom gathered, saving the world, he found himself checking to see the new message that had been sent.
cgfan0821
Scott has never been so proud. Writing doesn’t come easily to him. He gets trapped in his mind—like we all do at times. He finished it though because I promised I would try to have Loki read it. Tell Tom thank you for inspiring one of my kids.
It was then that Tom realized his cheeks ached. The low throb that occurs after an extended period of smiling. He read over the pictures three or four more times, understanding more and more with each repeated read. Of course it wasn’t the first time he had received a card or letter written by a child. This was by far the most extensive piece of writing he had encountered and a tad trickier to decipher through images. Nevertheless, it was Tom that was left feeling inspired, which was exactly the reason he felt compelled to respond.
twhiddleston
Please tell Scott that his work rivals that of many of the greats. Not only am I impressed with his use of metaphors (particularly ‘Loki was kayos’---I assume chaos?) but also his use of punctuation to make a point. Was that seven or eight exclamation points on page 2, sentence four?
Before he had time to close the browser, the typing sign appeared once more from the user. That polite nagging in the back of his still pounding head forced him to stay glued in his spot. Read the message and then change the password. He would send an equally polite goodbye and be done with Instagram.
cgfan0821
You assume correctly! I cared more about the metaphor than the spelling. You should have seen the rough draft though. There were at least seventeen exclamation points. Now I have to know, did you read it with the enthusiasm of seven exclamation points? Was Scott’s punctuation in vain?
He had been caught. When he had read the story, it was all in his head and more focused on deciphering everything rather than reading it with conviction. The fact that this messenger was so quick to point out his obvious mistake amused him.
twhiddleston
I’ll have to come clean. I did not read it with as much enthusiasm as was warranted.
cgfan0821
Then, you didn’t do your job as a reader. Scott did his job as a writer. What do you have to say for yourself?
A chuckle awoke Bobby from his mid-morning nap, as Tom shifted in his seat to start his reply. He literally knew nothing about the messenger and yet the phrase ‘what do you have to say for yourself’ made him curious about the person behind the screen. Curious was the word he would use, only for lack of wanting to admit the phrase awakening something within him. That was wildly inappropriate though, especially if he was going to end this conversation shortly and his presence on social media.
twhiddleston
I apologize profusely. I do not wish to lay blame on poor Scott, but the penmanship was making it a tad difficult to distinguish between exclamation and lowercase l’s.
cgfan0821
Do you run across a lot of lowercase l’s at the end of sentences? Is that a common practice in the UK?
twhiddleston
You make a brilliant point. I apologize once more.
There was a lingering pause as he waited for the messenger to begin typing once more. After five minutes had passed, however, he felt as though he may have lost his audience. This was the perfect time to end the conversation and carry on with the rest of his day. But…he couldn’t help himself.
twhiddleston
I take it, you’re not from the UK?
What was he doing? That was his chance to leave as politely as possible. Yet, here he was continuing a conversation with a complete stranger. Well, perhaps not a complete stranger. This person had children, based on the ‘my kids’ comment. Obviously cared about writing ... .and encouraged it wholeheartedly.
cgfan0821
Never been there before in my life. Southern woman, born and raised. I guess I should specify the United States?
cgfan0821
Also, I’ve never referred to myself as a southern woman. I don’t know why I started now. I don’t know how any of this works.
As if Tom knew how ‘any of this works’. Do people randomly exchange personal information over the internet? He’d later remind himself that a whole industry of dating apps had been created with that very purpose.
twhiddleston
Really? You must be absolutely exhausted. It has to be–what? One? Two in the morning over there?
cgfan0821
Ding. Ding. Professional development day for the school district tomorrow. I don’t have to be quite as on point as usual. My kids would call me out if I looked tired. They are ruthless.
More and more puzzle pieces were being given to him about the messenger. She was a teacher. The kids were her students. At that realization, something tugged at Tom’s heart. He had ‘nieces’ and ‘nephews’---children of coworkers and friends. Although he loved them dearly, he had never referred to them as his children. Yet, this woman did it so freely and with such ease that she had likely done it countless times before. Not only did she seem at ease talking about ‘her kids’, but she seemed at ease talking to him.
When was the last time a stranger had been able to do that? When had he been at ease with a stranger? Yes, he knew how to put on the smile, the charm—he knew how to be Tom Hiddleston. When was the last time he was able to simply be Tom?
cgfan0821
I have to ask…Who am I speaking to?